


Change of Scenery

by thirsyduck



Series: Duck Dump Drabble [3]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:13:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24698125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirsyduck/pseuds/thirsyduck
Summary: Jim, Negaduck, is training his replacement and sets up the perfect scene for his and Darkwing's next episode. If only some mutt hadn't gone and ruined it.
Relationships: Drake Mallard/Jim Starling
Series: Duck Dump Drabble [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785571
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	Change of Scenery

nside a warehouse off by the docks of Saint Canard, work was being done. Rain pelted the tin ceiling as crew members hustled about setting everything in place, nearly tripping over themselves in the dim lighting. Several cheap, electronic store cameras were set atop flimsy tripods, their viewfinders turned in every possible angle toward the center of the warehouse.

Fear hung in the air, a thick and heavy, a rancid smell that coated and clung to everything in the warehouse. Or maybe that was just the rotting fish, netted and pushed off to a corner. Silence filled the room as the crew worked, meticulously placing chairs and crates around where the cameras pointed. Stage lights were hung from the rafters, adding ambiance to a scene already dripping with character. Though, that could just be the mildew, leaking down from the busted ac unit high in a window; creating a pleasant white noise along with the rain.

In the center of it all was Darkwing Duck. The hero was securely tied to a large anchor behind him, the thing rusted and smelling of the sea. Heavy chains held the caped crusader in place, wrapped multiple times around him and tight enough to restrict the duck’s heavy breathing. They clinked as the man still tried to escape, work past the pain. And there was a lot of it. Swollen black eye, broken finger, a bleeding cut on his knee. Oh yeah, the hero had taken a beating.

Darkwing was glaring at the director of his misfortune, the conductor of his pained rasps, the young mallard clearly suffering and loathing Jim for every second of it.

Fucking perfect.

Weeks to set up this gorgeous set, probably the best Jim has ever worked on. And it was all coming together.

Catching his co-star looking at him, Darkwing’s brows furrowed, losing that gloriously resentful expression. It was irritating.

“Stop this, Jim, you can still—”

“Oh, please, Dorkwing, we’re on camera; call me Negaduck.” Jim rolled his shoulders, loosening up his stiff joints. Either from the fight or air pressure drop from the rain; he ached. What didn’t help the aching was how his head throbbed every time Dipwing made an amateurish mistake. The kid really was pathetic: refusing to read Jim’s script, as if he was anywhere near skilled enough to try adlibbing. Forgetting their stage names while filming, trying to turn their action scenes into sappy dramas with redemption and forgiveness. Bleh.

Kid had no idea what sold, what the people wanted; no wonder he needed Jim so badly.

Having lost his chance at a comeback, Jim had dedicated himself to training the next generation’s Darkwing Duck. Taking on the grim and gritty role of an older mentor, he put in long hours, serious dedication, sweat, blood. Lots and lots of blood, gallons of the stuff-- all for the purpose of whipping his replacement into shape. But the kid made it so. Difficult.

Constantly flipping the script, changing the themes or lessons of the scene, sometimes outright refusing to act. Worst of all was when the brat tried inserting his personal assistant into a scene, completely ignoring the fact that this was a two man cast and the rest were all extras. It was like he was trying to fundamentally change who Darkwing was. Some sappy, lessons learned every episode, overdone fuzzy-wuzzy garbage Jim had fought tooth and nail to stop the show from becoming.

It was infuriating. But hey, Jim thought with a smile; that was just today’s youth.

He dusted off his cape and adjusted his hat, bending his knees and back, groaning at the satisfying crack it produced. Shaking his head, Jim did a few jaw exercises, opening and closing his bill, flicking his tongue out. Needed to be loose and fluid, next was his big scene.

The villain’s monologue.

“Action!” Jim shouted without looking at the cameraman. Didn’t need to, to know the man was going to do his job. Jim was paying him well for it, after all. Every minute of film captured was a minute more he would be given to run away while Jim got his chainsaw revving.

“R-rolling,” a stagehand shouted back and Jim, no-- Negaduck, took a deep breath.

Showtime.

“Well, well, well,” he paced in front of the hero, hands folded behind his back. “Would you look at that? It’s the catch of the day; Darkwing Duck.”

“Oh, but I wouldn’t eat anything from those waters,” Negaduck grinned, stepping closer to the anchor, to his enemy. “You see, Dark, in a few hours my boys here will have loaded up the goods and dumped them into the St. Canard harbor.”

“That’s why you made that bakery your hideout,” Darkwing exclaimed, his one good eye widening. “To make poisoned bread!”

Negaduck nodded, “yeah, see I thought about just adding cyanide to some fish food, but it turned out to be a real challenge. The flakes just dissolved and they smelt terrible.”

Nothing at all like what the warehouse smelt like now. Blood, fear, rotting fish; _fucking ambrosia_.

“Had to come up with something more permanent, something no one would suspect, and something I could still use if the boat didn’t come through.”

Which it had, but only after Negaduck had gone through most of its crew. The rest worked for him now, manning the set and a few waiting back on the ship. They’d accepted his generous offer of employment in exchange for their lives. The sniveling fools had been too terrified to fight or even run after they watched his chainsaw rip through their blowhard of a captain.

Extras who weren’t worth the time Negaduck was paying them. They were nothing at all like his nemesis, who had watched Negaduck kill plenty, and still came back to resume his role.

“We got the bread all loaded up and once the first fishing boat sets sail, we will too. Gotta make sure the fish they catch are the ones we feed. Cause, see, the cyanide won’t kill the fish, not right away.”

His smile sharp, insanely pleased with the ingenuity of his own plan; Negaduck reached forward to grab Darkwing by his short, white hair. Gripping it hard enough that he heard the younger duck hiss in pain, he purred “not before they hit the market.”

Practically beak to beak with his counter, he watched in slow motion as the hero worked out exactly what that meant. Pride rippled through Negaduck’s chest and he delighted in the shuddery gasp of horror Darkwing gave after putting it all together. The lessons were paying off, the new Darkwing was becoming a better detective every episode.

Hundreds of fish laced with poison sent off to the Saint Canard markets, to its restaurants and shops? Hundreds of Saint Canardians dead. And by the time the city realized what had happened, it would be too late.

“You won’t get away with this, Negaduck.” Darkwing declared and—

The script! Darkwing was finally sticking to the script, and his acting had improved tremendously. That harsh glint in the mallard’s eye looked like real hatred. His grip on the hero’s hair almost turned gentle, proud as he was at the younger’s development. He wanted to pat the boy’s fluffed, bloodied cheeks and tell him good job.

Jim would make a great Darkwing out of him yet.

Jim.

No, nonono! Negaduck! He was in a roll. Acting. He couldn’t be the one to slip, break character.

Growling, he released his hold on Dipwing’s hair and reared his arm back, backhanding the hero with all the force he could muster. Pain erupted from where his hand had connected with the other’s bill, and he gripped his wrist, rubbing. The resounding slap that echoed throughout the warehouse was satisfying, though, worth it, as was Dark turning his head to spit out blood. Ha! That was a nice touch. See, the brat might not have the skill to pull off an adlib, but Negaduck was plenty experienced. Everything he did just added flare to the scene, made it more believable. Like he was really going to kill Darkwing if the duck didn’t escape, like he was really going to poison hundreds of innocent citizens.

Because he was. What? Over the short run of their new show, it’d been proven time and time again that Darkwing needed a little real world motivation to do his damn job. If not, he spent the whole runtime trying to talk, and wasn’t that a waste of both their talents? Also just made for a snooze fest of an episode.

“You’re a monster,” Dakrwing breathed, looking at Negaduck as though seeing him for the first time, licking the blood from his split bill. Negaduck mimicked the action, blue-rimmed eyes wide and following the thin trail of blood that flowed from the shallow cut. It rolled around the hero’s thick lower bill, dripped onto the floor in tiny splatters.

He swallowed, blinking. Lines. Lines, had to speak. He was next. Focus!

What was a villain to do when called a monster? Unintentional flattery by their nemesis, the best kind. Calling an agent of chaos and destruction a monster? Darkwing should have known better. He would, in time.

Negaduck threw his head back, placed his hands over his yellow-coat covered stomach, and cackled. A deep, throaty laugh filled with the genuine joy he felt at finally having gotten through to Darkwing. His shoulders shook and his pointed teeth were on full display, glinting dangerously under the stage lights.

A shadow cast over his joyous form and the laughter died in his throat. Shadow? This was supposedly to be a deceptively well-lit scene, the dim lighting a ruse as everything in frame was perfectly clear. A clever little set trick— that had been ruined!

Snarling, he snapped his head to where the shadow was being cast from. Rage made his skin feel blistering, like he’d been dipped in boiling water and the heat was consuming him.

“Am I going to have to rip your throat out?!” He screamed at the trembling, terrified stage hand. An ugly bulldog who was standing directly in front of Negaduck’s previously perfect lighting. “In the middle of a scene-- Why the fuck are you walking right through? Ah-da-da-dah, like this in the background. What the fuck is it with you? What don’t you fucking understand? You got any fucking idea about—” The stage hand started to step back, eyes wide and tail tucked between its fat, pudgy legs.

Enraged at the dog even daring to think it could leave his set, Negaduck marched forward, shoulders hunched as his shoulders shook with a mighty need to maim.

“It’s fucking distracting!” He raged. Terror had frozen the stagehand in place as Negaduck made his stormy approach.

“Give me a fucking answer! What don’t you get about it?” Standing in front of the dog, the disgusting mutt standing two heads taller than him; he gripped it by the shirt and pulled it down to his level.

Oxymoron as that was; this shit for brains would never be on his level.

It gulped, struggling to speak, and when it did Negaduck wanted to tear the dog’s throat out.

“I... was checking the light.” A strange yip of a voice, grating and only serving to make Negaduck more furious. A fucking excuse? Did it really think that would work? Weeks putting together the perfect set and this mutt had gone and ruined it.

“And how was it? I hope it was good because it’s fucking useless now!”

“Let him go, Jim!” Darkwing shouted from behind him.

“Negaduck!” He snapped, turning his head around to glare at the duck, recoiling at what he saw. That hateful expression was gone, replaced by a beseeching look in the mallard’s eye, almost like he was pleading with some good sense Negaduck didn’t have.

“You made him fucking break character!” He screeched, turning back around, seeing red. The boy had been doing so well, fighting him, using his stage name, and this shit head had gone and ruined it. Months of progress all gone because some mutt wanted to look at a light.

Negaduck’s chest heaved, breathing heavy as his beak twisted into a deranged smile. Well, the mutt wanted to look at the light? Fine, let him.

It would be the last thing he ever saw.

“Oh, I’ll let him go alright.” Growling, he shoved the dog away from him hard enough to knock it to the ground.

Then he reached for the stage light lifting it by the thick black pole. It was weighty, felt good in his hands. Nothing like a chainsaw, but it would get the job done. Negaduck always got the job done.

“No, Mister Starling, p-please I have a wi—”

“Negaduck!” He bellowed, swinging the front of the light down onto the pathetic creature’s face.

“Negaduck, Negaduck, Negaduck!” He said after every repeated bashing. Blood stained the light’s glass, the floor, and the bulldog’s snubbed nose had caved into its bulbous head.

The glass cracked and shards buried themselves into the dog’s face. It howled in pain, but Negaduck just smashed the light over its face again, shutting it up.

Panting, he tossed the light to the side, slowly advancing on the dog’s body. Was it dead? A gurgled moan spilled from the mutt’s blood soaked mouth and Negaduck seethed. No, not dead. Not yet. He had been paying the crew, the filthy extras, with their lives, and now this one wasn’t worth the cost.

He dropped to his knees by the dog’s side, up near its head where he could observe his handiwork. Not bad. Its nose was completely caved in, teeth shattered. A shard of glass had embedded itself in the dog’s eye, blood pooling around it, and without thinking, Negaduck reached for it, sliding it out of the socket with a wet pop. He was a little disappointed the eye hadn’t come with it, but oh well.

Raising his hand high, he stabbed the glass into the dog’s remaining eye, again, and again, not stopping until the white pulpy mass resembled tapioca pudding. He laughed, disgusting. He hated tapioca. The dog’s body shook and it whimpered, twitching trying to roll away from its unseen attacker. None of that now.

Negaduck heaved himself over the dog’s body, sitting on its chest, his legs spread around its broad torso, holding it in place. He looked at the shard of glass in his hand. It had dug into his skin from the force of how tightly he gripped it, blood stained his white feathers and Negaduck smiled. Red really was his color.

“Hey… hey Dark,” he called behind him, grin wide. “What do you call a-a fish market that sells circuit breakers and good fucking lighting,” he gnashed his teeth at the dog underneath him, but quickly recovered. Gotta finish the bit Ji- Negaduck . “A bait and switch!” He crowed, always great at the comedy bits, he slapped a hand over a knee, wiped a tear from his eye, blood smearing underneath.

Giggles bubbled up and out of him, thinking about how hilarious he was; the whole ruined situation was comical. He looked down at himself, blood coating his uniform, then he glanced to where the smashed light lay. His smile dropped and the fury returned. Ruined. His set was ruined. This episode was a bust.

All because of a stupid mutt.

He titled the shard of glass, looking at its jagged edges. Then, without warning, plunged the tip into the dog’s throat.

“Jim, no!”

Blood gushed from the wound, but it was nothing like in the movies. It didn’t squirt, it seeped out, spilling over Negaduck’s hand, down over his crotch, and onto the floor. His tongue lolled out of his beak as its warmth coated him. His thoughts heady as he watched the dog’s breathing slow until it stopped, as the body beneath him stiffened in only the way a corpse could.

His hips jerked forward as he tilted his head back, eyes sliding closed in a temporary moment of pure bliss.

Chains rattled, and Jim’s eyes slanted open. What a rush. He tossed the glass to the floor, his knees popping as he stood. He rolled an arm, pressing a hand into the shoulder, already sore from how hard he had been beating the dog. What a workout, he couldn’t remember the last time he had snapped at a stage hand like that. Had he ever?

Negaduck didn’t think so.

No, Jim. The scene was over, set ruined. The crew were too terrified to do their jobs properly and his costume was coated with blood. Groaning, he pushed himself up and off the dog. Pleasure raced up his spine and a moan slipped past his bill. Jim shuddered, looking down. He...was presenting. His cock, dark, hard, and pulsing; out in the open for cast and crew to see. Had he really enjoyed killing the mutt that much? Sure, Jim liked it rough, always had, but…

Stranger things had happened. Much stranger Jim thought as he looked back to where his co-star was still tied up, jerking and struggling against his chains. The look on the hero’s face sent pleasure shooting straight to his cock, making precum bead and drip from the tip. Jim didn’t think anything of it when he reached down to grip his hard member with a bloody hand, using the sticky red liquid as a terrible makeshift lube. It was warm, hot. Just like the look Darkwing Duck was giving him.

Darkwing….

Forget the script. Reality TV was all the rage these days, wasn’t it?

Letting go, his erection bobbed in the air as he walked over to his understudy. His replacement. His prodigy. His Darkwing.

His hand, covered in a mixture of blood and his own precum, he cupped the underside of the mallard’s lower bill. He spread it around, touch light; thinking red looked just as good on the other duck as it did him.

“Hey, kid, how about a genre change?” He murmured, eyes half-lidded as he looked down at the young mallard’s trembling form. The suit looked good on him, not as good as it had on Jim, but maybe out of it….

“Thriller erotica.” He pressed his thumb into Dark’s beak and his knees went weak when the kid wasted no time biting him. Those blunt teeth tore through feathers and flesh and didn’t let go until Jim’s eyes fluttered, the older duck moaning in pleasure.

“Y-you’re sick,” the hero spat, blood and feathers on the tip of his bill.

The claim washed over Jim, his demeanor serene as he looked at himself, reflected in the younger’s hate filled eye. Was he sick? Yeah, but so was the whole damn world; knowledge that only came with age, experience. The kid would learn.

As Darkwing’s mentor, he could teach the boy something new. Action hero was fine and all, great for actors just starting out. Builds a following, but it’s dangerous and can lead to type casting. Jim had fallen into that trap, years of his life dedicated to a roll, the perfect roll, but it meant once it was over; so was he

He’d make the ones who had stolen his spotlight away pay, one day. A grand finale of sorts. But for now, he had to prepare his prodigy against the harsh realities of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to try my hand at gore and kept thinking about Jim getting off on it. Also Christian Bale's infamous rant kept springing to mind as I was writing, so a little of that is here too.


End file.
